Relativity
by moosecanoe
Summary: Can you kidnap someone who was already kidnapped? ChristophexBebe ON HIATUS
1. Prologue

South Park © Trey Parker and Matt Stone

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A tall, blonde man sat in a leather articolo chair, his back to the curtain-draped window. Various codes and maps decorated the screen of his very well-secured laptop computer. He rested his chin on his hand and drank from a whiskey glass. A small murmur came from the blue-tooth in his ear.

It was a tapping. The mission was confirmed to be a success thus far.

However, his partner was not out of the woods yet. Said man was at the point in time leaning against the wall of an English pub. His target was not quite in sight, but he tapped on the microphone in his ear to let Gregory know he was inside. His blonde partner certainly could hear the commotion of the bar and its residents, but any reply Christophe could give him aside from tapping on the small device would either arouse suspicion or be drowned out by the noise.

As he lit another cigarette, his eyes searched until he located his target. This was usually his key to kill the bastard, but this was not that type of mission. Christophe sat unpleasantly on a bar stool and eyed the large brute of a bartender until he looked away. He put out his cigarette in an ash tray and pretended to be inspecting one of the women as she passed by. In truth, he was looking just past her to the booth in the very corner of the building.

The blonde, handsome Irishman placed a few hundreds into the apron of a waitress and joked with his table mates, his words inaudible with the loud music. The frail young woman sitting next to him stared blankly at a wall. He wrapped his arm around her shoulders, a little too rough. He could tell that she was forced to be there, forced to be tugged from bar to bar by her drunkard lover, and forced to watch him tip the large-busted woman far more than they deserved. He wondered why a woman would stay with such a lecher, but some women were just stupid, he supposed.

Gregory's voice snapped him out of his thoughts. "Mole, come in."

He tapped his ear in reply.

"Don't lose focus."

Christophe almost retorted, annoyed at the childish orders he was just given. _Don't lose them. As if I hadn't done this before. _He knew he was not suited for this type of mission, that he was better at being a hit-man than a stalker, but it wasn't like he was going to lose the target in a small crowd. Not that he really could if he tried; the Irishman was boisterous and enjoyed flaunting his money.

As his target whistled at the waitress for the bill, Christophe slipped out of the pub and waited outside near the entrance, leaning against the brick wall and lighting another cigarette. The sound of laughter approached the door and as a crowd of people entered, his target exited. The crowd proved useful, as Christophe was able to follow them without much effort.

All was going well until the young woman fell behind her posse and attempted at taking off her heels. Christophe stopped in his tracks and took out a newpaper from his coat, inspecting it as a few other men near the magazine stand were doing. He continued watching them from the corner of his eye. Before she could unclasp one shoe, one of her partner's goons called her over and told her to keep them on like she was told. Christophe couldn't see her face, but he could tell she had submitted and allowed her lover to grab her close to him by the waist and glare at her before telling an off-color joke to one of his mates.

Christophe's blue-tooth chimed in. "I just got word from the insider that they are on their way to his office. A vehicle is on your way."

He watched closely as the Irishman lost his footing, which caused her to stumble a little. As he berated her for not walking straight, she nodded looked at him while leaning her head on his shouder. He took no heed to her, which seemed to be the plan as she began messing with her bracelet out of his field of vision. When he let go of her and cat-called a few women passing by, she let the bracelet drop to the floor.

This caused an alarm to go off in his head. The woman briefly looked at him over her shoulder and turned to feebly catch her drunken boyfriend. The group gathered into a black sedan and he heard a loud crash behind him just as he had picked up the bracelet from the sidewalk. It seems that he was venturing away from the black suburban that arrived to pick him up and the driver, in attempt to get closer to him, ran through a stop sign and collided with another car. The crash was not violet, but noticeable to the enemy vehicle and Christophe ducked into an alley as soon as a few bullets whizzed past his head and into the wall of a building. People scattered and a man fell to the floor as a stray bullet went through his left arm. C

Christophe tapped his blue tooth and commanded Gregory to send another vehicle.

"I'm way ahead of you. Sent one as soon as I heard the crash. The idiot blokes we have to hire, I swear..."

The smoking rifle held by the Irishman's goon disappeared into the vehicle and it sped off before the back-up Gregory sent could arrive. The sound of police sirens alerted Christophe to his vulnerable position and he ran into the chaotic crowd, pushing past pedestrians until he reached the shook-up driver and pulled him into the black sedan just as it drove up next to them. He gave the man a death glare and ordered the driver to get them the hell out of there.

As soon as the sirens were far behind them, the driver slowed down to a normal, inconspicuous speed. Christophe cursed repeatedly and took out his pistol, pointing it at the previous driver's head. The man gave him a wide-eyed look and begged him not to kill him.

"You fucking idiot." Christophe growled as the frightened man. "If you ever put me in danger again, I will not hesitate to end your life."

The man flinched and shook his head violently before staring out the window, still shaking.

As they reached the familiar red-brick building, Christophe reached into his pocket and removed the silver bracelet. It was expensive and ruined, no doubt, but the owner seemed to find her message more important. He read the small lettering carved into the jewelry.

_Peter A. Smithson_

__He raised an eyebrow. So, the enemy's downfall was going to be a young woman. The mission was going smoothly. They now had all the information they needed. It seemed ridiculous to not even know your enemy's name, but the entire point on the mission was to expose the underground cocaine trade in London. This was a very small, but very important clue in their investigation. Christophe smirked. The mission was a success.

When he presented his findings to Gregory and explained the story behind it, his partner pointed out something he hadn't even thought of.

_Why would she have his name on her jewelry? _He didn't seem the romantic type, and she didn't seem proud enough to parade their relationship around. Gregory frowned, saying it sounded really suspicious.

They would have to add this young woman into their investigation.

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**Revised & edited to correct grammar/spelling and additional detail. Also a plot change to the end of the chapter. Apologies for the short chapter. The future ones will be much longer. ****Please take the time to write a review, it will inspire me to write chapters much faster. I have a lot planned for this story.**


	2. A Frightened Child

South Park © Trey Parker and Matt Stone

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When we return to our French vigilante, he is scaling the shadowed side of a two-story building, being only supported by a grappling hook he had fastened to the roof. As he slowly slid around a second-floor window, he removed his rifle from the holster on his back. The area was dark and with Gregory inside the building, he had no second pair of eyes.

This only meant more caution, as Christophe felt he was perfectly capable of handling himself. His feet gently hit the concrete balcony and he untied the rope from his belt. He leaned against the wall next to a window and removed a small mirror from his pocket. With it, he was able to see inside the building without physically looking into the window. This way, he could watch his back as well as spy on the large party inside.

The gathering consisted of mostly men, well-dressed scum bags from Wall Street and European financial companies. Many of them were recognizable to someone who payed attention to political news. Gregory stood near a group of American businessmen, one of them had an arm around an escort. Christophe narrowed his eyes. Gregory fit a tad too well into these sort of crowds.

It made sense, considering he was usually the brains of the operation while Christophe carried out the dirty work. If not for the childhood acquaintanceship and Gregory's ability to do the dirty work when necessary, he was sure he would have found another partner a long time ago.

Focusing all his thoughts on the current mission, Christophe quietly belly crawled to where he was under the window, where he could not be seen through it. He slowly reached one gloved hand over the window sill and pushed the glass up. As promised, it lifted with ease.

Gregory had unlatched it in order to "get some air" earlier while pretending to be a light-weight when it came to wine. The man had glorious acting skills.

So far so good. Christophe pushed the end of his rifle through the window and peered through the scope, sitting up as he did so. It was no longer a matter of stealth, for the entire party would know he was there within a few seconds.

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Gregory adjusted his tie, pretending to listen to the financial CEO drone on about his business. He was rather talented at focusing on two things at once. He could not help but feel anxious about the operation. He was out of his element. This was Christophe's thing, to sneak and kill. He was always the man behind the screen.

However, the target's lady had provided them with his name, allowing them to research and discover that he was wealthy and would be hosting a business party at this date and location. Shaking hands with the men he had been grouped with, he rid himself of them and weaved through the crowd, searching for the man he had come here to meet with.

He found his target in the corner of the large ballroom, sitting on a couch, looking drowsy and very pleased. The contents on the table in front of him were evidence that he had just snorted a large amount of cocaine. Gregory sighed at these types, not understanding why they never followed the rules. The easiest way to stay on top was to not use the stuff at all. Especially not your own stuff.

He took note that the hazy man had to have been in a very awful mood to have used that much. Even his mates looked a tad bit worried. The young woman that Christophe described was nowhere in sight and Gregory had a feeling that the Irishman couldn't care less about her.

As he approached the group of men, he saw that the target had bloody and bruised knuckles. His goon was attempting to wrap his hands, but the Irishman waved him off, far too high to care for such things. Gregory felt himself become slightly more worried about the young woman that he had yet to see.

He kept his distance, but cursed when the target stood up and began to head towards a heavily crowded area. Acting on impulse, he stopped the man and held out his hand.

"Peter Smithson?"

Said man looked at him with suspicious, heavy-lidded eyes. "Who the fuck are you?"

Gregory inwardly felt the need to hit the man over the head. Even the sleazy CEOs who were well-known to whore houses acted more polite than this man. Before he could answer, a bullet hit Peter in the shoulder and the man cried out in pain, falling to the floor.

Cursing, Gregory pulled out his pistol and, hiding within the screaming crowd, he headed towards the part of the building full of corridors. He heard Christophe smash the window and shoot the few men who were carrying guns, all pointed towards the French assassin.

Pushing past the crowd, he entered a hallway full of doors and quickly opened them, one-by-one, shooting off the locks of some of them. Most were empty rooms designed to look like hotel rooms. One particular door required him to shoot the lock twice and when it opened, a foul smell of blood assaulted his senses.

He coughed and turned on the lights to see what was once a very lovely room now destroyed to bits. Glass and porcelain scattered the carpet and the bed was blood stained. He heard whimpering and, holding up his gun, headed towards the source.

On the other side of the bed, lying in a very uncomfortable position on the floor, was a young blonde woman. She was shaking violently and her breathing was shallow. She grimaced and nearly cried out when Gregory helped sit her up. He asked her repeatedly who she was and what happened to her, but she was too far in shock to give a coherent reply.

As gently as he could, he helped her stand up and walk, holding her by her waist. The dark blue dress she wore was ripped and bloody, but still in well enough condition for her to wear in public. As they reached the ballroom, Christophe had gunned down all the assailants and Peter and a mate of his were stumbling towards their escape. Just as they entered the elevator, a bullet went through Peter's head, causing his mate to scream in agony as the doors closed.

Gregory turned to see that Christophe had his rifle down, the barrel not even pointed towards the elevator. He turned to see the young woman, her hair falling from its messy bun, standing right next to him, the pistol she was holding pointed right at the elevator. In an instant, she had removed Gregory's gun from it's holster on his belt and shot her boyfriend right through the back of his head.

She was shaking violently and the gun dropped from her hand. She looked at her hand, then at him, like a frightened child, then fell to her knees. Gregory knelt next to her, attempting to talk to her.

"I just wanted it to be over. I tried to tell him to stop." she muttered, before her eyes grew dark and her broken body collapsed onto the ground.

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**I've come to realize how very AU this story is, but I'll try to make it fit with canon. Please R&R.**


	3. Disgraceful

South Park © Trey Parker and Matt Stone

_Soundtrack: Ghosts n Stuff (feat. Rob Swire) by Deadmau5_

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The blonde girl laying on the old mattress in the shaded hotel room opened her blue eyes. She flinched at the sudden pain that engulfed her body. She felt as if she had just been hit by a train. Observing her surroundings, (_closed laptop on a small desk, recliner in the corner_) she felt a surge of panic that hurt her stomach. Moving her head only slightly, she saw that the wooden door was bolted. The only way of escape was the window.

Her heart thumped against her ribs and she struggled to sit up. Her body felt as if she had ripped open every muscle, but pure, frightened adrenaline helped numb it so that she could shakily get to her feet. She still wore the dress she had put on last night. It was wrinkled, dirty, and blood-stained. A large sum of money down the drain just like that. Using the wall to support her, she steadily walked towards the window.

As she got closer, her strength grew a little and she was able to grasp the edges of the red curtains and jerk them open. The light blinded her and she felt a breeze. The window was open. She shielded her eyes from the sun, hoping that she was not too far up to crawl down. Or at least call for help.

Suddenly, she heard a small click. Almost like a clock, but the odd sensation in her left arm said otherwise. She looked down to her slowly numbing appendage and pulled out what seemed to be a feathered tranquilizer. She was an animal to her kidnappers. She wanted to throw up, but she couldn't even open her mouth.

She fell into a sitting position, for the numbing had spread to her left leg. She turned towards approaching footfalls and watched as a blonde man calmly entered the room. He was carrying a large binder of paperwork along with a plastic bag. He gave her a brilliant smile.

"Ah, I didn't expect you to be awake so soon, little one. Please do forgive the tranquilizer, we can't have you jumping from a 9-story window."

Bebe stared at him, taken back by his politeness. She looked towards the window to see a dirt-smeared man step through it from the outside balcony. He had a shovel slung over his left shoulder and a tranquilizer gun pointed straight at her in his right hand.

She made an effort to move away from him subtly, but her legs were refusing to comply. She looked at the blonde man desperately as he set down his belongings and he waved a hand at the brunette man. Said man gave him a death glare before setting the gun along with his shovel down against a wall.

"Carry her to the couch. We need to change her bandages." The blonde ordered the brunette.

Again, a death glare was given before said man effortlessly picked her up bridal-style and dropped her onto the couch roughly before heading towards what she assumed to be the bathroom. He smelled like sweat and dirt.

The blonde man knelt by her side and began to unwrap the bandage on her arm. It had gone a rusty color from old blood. Bebe felt herself start to shake. She blinked back tears before looking away from the cut. She remembered, she remembered everything. Why she had that cut, who had done it, and what it was done with. Then, what she did to that person. She wanted to throw up again, but keeping her cool was possibly the only reason the blonde man was still nice to her. He re-wrapped her arm after inspecting the stitches he had done and handed her a bottle of healing ointment. She wasn't sure what she needed it for, until he spoke.

"When my partner's done in there, I want you to go in and use the mirror to help you apply this stuff. I'm far too much of a gentleman to do it myself. Don't try anything funny, my brute of a friend will be in there to guard you."

Bebe stared at him, desperate not to have an anxiety attack. "Who are you?"

The man looked as if he was contemplating telling her, and decided not to, shaking his head.

Something hit Bebe. His accent, the combed-back blonde hair,. "Wait...Gregory. You're Wendy's Gregory? The one who moved to our school?"

He looked at her as if she were an alien. "I have no idea what on Earth you're talking about."

"You moved to Colorado when you were in elementary school. You dated my best friend." Something inside Bebe relaxed and she felt full of relief, despite still feeling slightly numb and sore. This was somebody she somewhat knew. Somebody she could trust. Then again, it had been over a decade since she'd seen him.

Gregory looked at her in awe, confirming her guess. "You were the little blonde girl."

Bebe nodded, shakily sitting up. "That...he in there...that's Mole, isn't it?" She looked unsteadily at the bathroom door. Said man had just finished his shower.

"You know him?"

"Of him. He's going to kill me."

"Not likely. He's just pissed at you for killing our target. We needed the bloke alive."

Bebe blinked, unsure of what he meant. Then another thought came to her. "The Resistance was targeting Peter? I thought you guys were the cops. That's why I gave your stalker the bracelet. Oh shit, shit shit shit." She stood up on her feet and Gregory took her hand.

"Now, little one, I'm sorry to tell you this, but you're not allowed to leave."

Bebe sighed, looking at the window. "I figured."

"You know too much. I can't trust you."

"We can't trust you." Christophe interrupted, dressed in a fresh set of clothes. He pointed his thumb at the bathroom. "Let's get this over with."

Bebe gave Gregory an angry look. He was setting her up to be killed. She removed her hand from his and shakily stepped towards the bathroom. The fluorescent light certainly did nothing to better her features. Her hair was tangled into the same bun from last night and her makeup was nearly gone.

Yellowing bruises scattered her face, shoulders, and arms. She even had a few on her legs. There were some minor cuts aside from the large one on her aching arm. Her lip was swollen from being busted by Peter's fist. She took a deep, shaking breath, and opened the bottle. The strong fumes were able to distract her from her hideous features as she applied the ointment to the cuts and some of the more awful bruises. She cringed when the ointment touched her lip and black eye.

The entire time, Christophe watched her, standing in the doorway like some kind of guard dog. She closed the bottle and turned towards the door. She gave him a look and he glared back hatefully. Then he moved and she was able to exit and sit on the couch again. Her hands were shaking.

Christophe sat in the recliner and began cleaning his gun, ignoring her presence altogether. Gregory opened his laptop and powered it on. Bebe couldn't take the thick silence and spoke up.

"He beat me up because I gave you guys the bracelet. Again, I thought you were the cops. I'm lucky if I survive the next week. He thought I had lost it and told me it was important to him. It was a dog tag. It meant that he owned me. Like a pet." She frowned. She really was a weak woman. Her mother would be disgusted by her. Falling in love with someone who beat the shit out of you. _Disgraceful._

Christophe glanced up from his gun only briefly, but Gregory was openly listening. He simply nodded and turned back to his work. She felt that this was all she would get out of them for the day. She untied her hair, letting it fall down in long, curly strands and combed through it with her fingers. Her eyes shifted to see Christophe staring at her emotionlessly. Upon locking eyes, he grabbed a newspaper and opened it, hiding his face from her.

She tied her hair back again and laid down on the couch, stretching her sore legs. She stared at the wall, thinking again and again of Peter's blood on the elevator wall and the sounds of his friend screaming. Over and over he screamed.

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**Thanks for reading. Please review. They inspire me to crank out chapters faster.**


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